The Best American Short Plays 2013-2014

By William W. Demastes

For more than 70 years, The Best American Short Plays has been the standard of excellence for one-act plays in America. From its inception, it has identified cutting-edge playwrights – Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, and others – who have gone on to establish award-winning careers.

The Best American Short Plays 2013-2014 takes a look at our changing times. “Uncertain” seems to be the watchword of today's world, full of surprises, shocks, and even a few delights. Uncertainty brings with it fear and insecurity, as well as nostalgic longing for the good old days, but for some, uncertainty means opportunity and along with it the prospect of change for the better. This volume explores various experiences of uncertainty and includes a series of nine plays gathered by Daniel Gallant, entitled Nine Signs of the Times, as well as short plays by Neil LaBute, John Guare, Laura Shaine Cunningham, Daniel F. Levin, Quincy Long, Halley Feiffer, Caridad Svich, and Clay McLeod Chapman. This collection will be complemented by a range of plays from around the country by playwrights likewise observing and digesting the signs of the times. Together the plays of this volume work as a time capsule, capturing the fears and longings of a world on the verge and in the midst of big changes, hopefully for the better – but quite possibly for the worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RowmanLittlefield
• Release date: Jan 1, 2000
• ISBN: 9781495035425

Book preview

The Best American Short Plays 2013–2014

Edited with an intoduction by William W. Demastes

Copyright © 2015 by Applause Theatre & Cinema Books (an imprint of Hal Leonard Corporation)

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any other information storage or retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

Note: All plays contained in this volume are fully protected under copyright laws of the United States of America, the British Empire, including the Dominion of Canada, and all other countries of the International Copyright Union and the Universal Copyright Convention. Permission to reproduce, wholly or in any part, by any method, must be obtained from the copyright owners or their agents.

Published in 2015 by Applause Theatre & Cinema Books

An Imprint of Hal Leonard Corporation

7777 West Bluemound Road

Milwaukee, WI 53213

Trade Book Division Editorial Offices

33 Plymouth St., Montclair, NJ 07042

Printed in the United States of America

Book interior by UB Communications

ISBN 978-1-48039-548-0 [paper]

ISSN 0067-6284

www.applausebooks.com

Contents

Introduction: The Times They Are A-Changing

William W. Demastes

Johnny & Rosie

Quincy Long

The Wet Echo

Clay McLeod Chapman

This Side of New York

Caridad Svich

Alt-Visions, Kiss Before Clouding

Daniel F. Levin

I Didn’t Want a Mastodon

Halley Feiffer

iBaby

Laura Shaine Cunningham

Diminished Then Augmented

Daniel Gallant

Old Boyfriend

Neil LaBute

Between

John Guare

A Match

John Bolen

And Baby Makes Four

Frank Farmer

Angel at My Door

John Franceschini

Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Lynne Bolen

Journeys

Austin Peay

Variations on a Composition in Blue

Anne V. Grob

Let Rise

I. B. Hopkins

Goodnight Lovin’ Trail

John Patrick Bray

Fractaland

Andrea Sloan Pink

Right Sensation

Rich Orloff

Ski Lift

Chris Holbrook

A Long Trip

Dan McGeehan

Actor

Joe Maruzzo

Irish Stew

Cary Pepper

Last Call

Weldon Pless

Daffodils

Daniel Guyton

March Madness—Shhhhhh!

Jules Tasca

Introduction

The Times They Are A-Changing

William W. Demastes

Uncertain seems to be the watchword of today’s world, filled as it is with surprises, shocks, and even a few delights. Uncertainty brings with it fear and insecurity, and a nostalgic longing for the good old days. But for some, uncertainty means opportunity, and along with that opportunity comes the prospect of change for the better. Fifty years ago, Bob Dylan inserted a catchy phrase into our cultural consciousness: The times they are a-changing. The 1960s did in fact mark changes of all sorts for our world, many good and even revolutionary. It was an amazing time marked by triumph and tragedy both great and small. But think about how much more times have changed in the half-century since Dylan’s declaration. Things not even envisioned by science-fiction visionaries are now part of our daily fabric. Technology has transformed our lives by placing information of all sorts literally at our fingertips. It has made us far more efficient in the workplace. And it has provided us the opportunity to share our lives with anyone at any time from any distance. Of course, this is not all good. Rapid pace and shrinking distance have reduced opportunities to reflect and contemplate. They have cut out times for creative play, for daydreaming, and so many other not-for-profit enterprises that make life worth living.

Then there are all those other changes, the ones that somehow have made us more alienated from one another than ever before. It is fortunate today that political adversaries remain unarmed, as oppositional political enmity has torn our country into enclaves of fear and mistrust. Race relations have reached both new highs and new lows. Sex and gender issues have received unprecedented public exposure, again for good and ill. And religion (traditional as well as New Age) continues its struggle against erosions of faith, leading to visions of godlessness and attendant despair. The triumph of tearing down the cold-war wall has brought on innumerable unintended negative consequences, opening the way for countless brush-fire tyrannies, and making the world in many ways more dangerous than ever before since we can’t even be sure who our enemies are, or what they want, or why they hate us.

But in this world of uncertainty, acts of kindness, almost miraculously, find ways to break through. Generosity hasn’t gone underground, altruism is not a dirty word, and love remains as coveted as ever. These are the energies that Dylan called forth in 1964, invoking leaders of all stripes to turn to conciliation rather than holding on to policies of self-interest.

Looking back at the last fifty years since Dylan’s landmark declaration provides us another opportunity to reflect upon how the last half-century has brought about changes utterly unforeseen by anyone looking. We can see that indeed the times have changed, both for good and for ill. It’s pretty apparent to most of us that reflection is not something strongly encouraged in our hurly-burly culture. But this volume asks that you do exactly that: reflect upon so much that has changed in the last half-century, or perhaps even in the last decade. Knowing where we came from is a major step toward knowing where we’re headed.

This volume of The Best American Short Plays takes a look at our changing times, keying in on reflections about relational difficulties that in many ways are at the heart of all that is right and wrong with the world. Opening this volume is a series of plays produced in a single New York City venue (The Nuyorican Poets Cafe) appropriately entitled Nine Signs of the Times, produced by Daniel Gallant. Another collection of plays follows, entitled Summer Voices 2014, performed at the Stage Door Repertory Theatre in Anaheim, California. Smart and inventive, these collections capture the spirit of the times, some embracing the unknown future by looking forward, others embracing the times by reflecting upon the past. These collections are further complemented by a range of plays from around the country by playwrights likewise observing and digesting the signs of the times. Together the plays of this volume work as a time capsule for this uncertain world during these uncertain times, capturing the fears and longings of a world on the verge and in the midst of big changes, hopefully for the better but quite possibly for the worse.

Johnny & Rosie

Quincy Long

Johnny & Rosie by Quincy Long. Copyright © 2014 by Quincy Long. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of the author.

CAUTION/ADVICE: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that performance of Johnny & Rosie is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, and of all countries covered by the International Copyright Union (including the Dominion of Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealth), and of all countries covered by the Pan-American Copyright Convention and the Universal Copyright Convention, the Berne Convention, and of all countries with which the United States has reciprocal copyright relations. All rights, including professional and amateur stage performing rights, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound recording, all other forms of mechanical or electronic reproduction, such as CD-ROM, DVD-ROM, information storage and retrieval systems, and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved. Particular emphasis is placed upon the matter of readings, permission for which must be secured from the author’s agent in writing.

Inquiries concerning rights should be addressed to: Quincy Long 40 E. 10th St. #2H New York, NY 10003; quincylong2@gmail; 347-342-8747; or Alexis Williams, Bret Adams Agency, 448 West 44th St., New York, NY 10036; 212-765-5630; [e-mail]

Quincy Long

Productions include People Be Heard at Playwrights Horizons; The Only Child at South Coast Rep, Costa Mesa, California; The Lively Lad at New York Stage and Film and The Actors Theatre of Louisville; The Virgin Molly at the Atlantic Theatre and Berkeley Rep; The Joy of Going Somewhere Definite at the Atlantic Theatre and Mark Taper Forum. Joy was optioned by Icon Films and was published by Dramatists Play Service, as were People Be Heard and The Lively Lad. Current projects include Buried Alive, a one-act opera adapted from an Edgar Allan Poe short story, commissioned by American Lyric Theatre in New York, produced in 2014 by Fargo Moorhead Opera, to be produced in 2016 by Fort Worth Opera; Daughters of Io, a play, and The Cup, an opera, both commissioned by Theatre Mon Dieu in New York City. Long is a graduate of the Yale School of Drama, is from Warren, Ohio, and lives in New York City.

• • • production history • • •

Johnny & Rosie was part of a presentation of monologues and one-act plays under the title Nine Signs of the Times, a benefit for New York’s Nuyorican Poets Cafe’s education programs, April 11–13, 2014. Technical director Samuel Chico, music by Michael Gallant, produced by Daniel Gallant, directed by Kathleen Dimmick.

JOHNNY Dean Imperial

ROSIE Penny Balfour

characters

JOHNNY, an emotional mobster.

ROSIE, his commonsensical moll.

location

An apartment in the big city.

time

The 1930s.

• • •

JOHNNY [Paces.] You sure now, Rosie?

ROSIE Yeah, Johnny.

JOHNNY No snapshots, no movies, no nothin’, promise?

ROSIE I promise to God.

JOHNNY Can’t be any of that, okay? Got a thing about that. And don’t ask.

ROSIE I won’t ask.

JOHNNY No boyfriends with cameras?

ROSIE Nope.

JOHNNY No baby pictures on bearskin rugs?

ROSIE I was a baby, who knows?

JOHNNY I come to find out you lied to me. . . .

ROSIE Then you can kill me, okay?

JOHNNY I wouldn’t never do that.

ROSIE I know how you mob guys do.

JOHNNY Not to our wife. Girl we take home to our mother? Girl we’re gonna celebrate our anniversaries wit’ down the years, huh?

ROSIE Yeah.

JOHNNY Huuuuh?

ROSIE Ah, Johnny.

JOHNNY Long as there ain’t naked pictures somewheres.

ROSIE Like I said—

JOHNNY Okay, okay.

ROSIE You want a affidavit of it?

JOHNNY I want word of honor there ain’t pictures you fornicatin’ somebody on a deck of cards, or in the smuts, or what happened wit’ Harry the Hat’s girl showin’ up in that stag pitcher, everybody laughin’.

ROSIE Hey, it ain’t like I’m a virgin, ya know.

JOHNNY I don’t care about that. You can do it with dingoes in Times Square all I care. I just don’t want it showin’ up anywhere on—

ROSIE On film, I know, I know. There’s no pictures, Johnny!

JOHNNY Good.

ROSIE And no dingoes neither, just for the record.

JOHNNY Makes my skin crawl, the thought of seein’ some picture poppin’ up.

ROSIE I mean, could be there’s a painting maybe.

JOHNNY A what?

ROSIE There was a guy once I sat for.

JOHNNY Whatya mean, sat?

ROSIE I mean he paid me to sit.

JOHNNY What, on his face?

ROSIE No, not his—

JOHNNY What, then!? What!?

ROSIE Sit, sit—pose for a painting, you jackass!

JOHNNY You mean like a naked painting?

ROSIE They don’t call it naked. They call it nude.

JOHNNY Ah, fuck.

ROSIE You couldn’t even tell it was me, Johnny.

JOHNNY Rosie!

ROSIE Looked like a Cyclops with boobs.

JOHNNY That’s even worse!

ROSIE God, I looked somethin’ awful.

JOHNNY No, no, don’t you see? He was painting your inside self! Things I don’t even know about you! Things even you don’t even know about you! That’s what they do, them guys!

ROSIE What guys?

JOHNNY Artists! Artists! I seen a movie one time!

ROSIE What movie?

JOHNNY I don’t know! It was some movie with what’s-his-name—him and that Vivien somebody—and her face was burnt in a fire but inside she was—no, no, it was the other—she was beautiful outside, but inside she was rotten, so the painting come out lookin’ all burnt-lookin’ and, and, and—how could you do this to me, Rosie?!

ROSIE I didn’t even know you! He made one painting, one time! I was in high school, and it paid better than babysittin’! Now leave me alone, you big dope!

JOHNNY Okay, okay, so where is this thing, this painting? A museum someplace?

ROSIE How should I know?

JOHNNY Guys linin’ up to look at you and laugh at me!

ROSIE Doubt it’s in any museum. Guy wasn’t no artist. He was a doctor.

JOHNNY A medical man?

ROSIE A professor. Liked to paint on the side.

JOHNNY This egghead have a name?

ROSIE Muldoon, I think.

JOHNNY Doctor Muldoon, huh?

ROSIE Had a place down on Gossamer he liked to hide out from the wife and paint girls from the neighborhood.

JOHNNY Nailing poor little butterflies to the wall, that son of a bitch!

ROSIE Liked to call them his twins.

JOHNNY Call who what?

[She points to her breasts, one at a time.]

ROSIE Sacco. And Vanzetti. Or was it the other way around? His wife was a commie.

JOHNNY Jesus Christ! I’m gonna. I’m. I’m goin’ down there!

ROSIE You won’t find him, Johnny. Took him a job at some girls’ college up in cow country. Prob’ly in heaven up there.

JOHNNY Up where?

ROSIE I dunno, who knows?

JOHNNY The college, Rosie. Where’s it at?

ROSIE You ain’t goin’ up there.

JOHNNY You try an’ stop me!

ROSIE You’d stand out like a thumb, place like that!

JOHNNY I can’t stand it, Rosie!

ROSIE Johnny-with-a-rod-in-his-pants showin’ up at a college fulla girls!

JOHNNY I don’t care, I don’t care! I can’t stand the idea this fool got you up on the wall above of his bed! Lookin’ up at you! Dreamin’ of you! Makin’ love wit’ you!

ROSIE Okay, Johnny—

JOHNNY Havin’ his old age anniversary hump wit’ you ’stead of his ugly communist wife! I just can’t stand it, Rosie! I can’t stand it!

ROSIE Shh shh, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.

JOHNNY It ain’t okay!

ROSIE Yeah it is. Yeah. You know why? ’Cause Rosie’s gonna be right by your side in this here.

JOHNNY What?

ROSIE You and me, Johnny—come ’ere.

[Patting the couch.]

Come on.

[JOHNNY sits.]

You an’ me, we find out this college an’ go up there, okay? We stay at a inn wit’ quilts. We walk in the woods together. We take in the leaves, the moon, the stars. We find this Muldoon, get the painting back, bring it home here, hang it up over our bed, an’ get married, huh? Whaddya say?

[JOHNNY bursts into tears and throws his head onto ROSIE’s lap.]

JOHNNY Ah, Rosie!

[ROSIE strokes his head, soothing him.]

ROSIE Hey, Johnny Johnny whoops Johnny whoops Johnny Johnny Johnny . . . Johnny?

[JOHNNY’s asleep.]

• • •

The Wet Echo

Clay McLeod Chapman

The Wet Echo by Clay McLeod Chapman. Copyright © 2015 by Clay McLeod Chapman. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of the author.

CAUTION/ADVICE: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that performance of The Wet Echo is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, and of all countries covered by the International Copyright Union (including the Dominion of Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealth), and of all countries covered by the Pan-American Copyright Convention and the Universal Copyright Convention, the Berne Convention, and of all countries with which the United States hasreciprocal copyright relations. All rights, including professional and amateur stage performing rights, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound recording, all other forms of mechanical or electronic reproduction, such as CD-ROM, DVD-ROM, information storage and retrieval systems, and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved. Particular emphasis is placed upon the matter of readings, permission for which must be secured from the author’s agent in writing.

Inquiries concerning rights should be addressed to Clay McLeod Chapman at: [e-mail].

Clay McLeod Chapman

Clay McLeod Chapman is the creator of the rigorous storytelling session The Pumpkin Pie Show. His plays Rest Area, Miss Corpus, and The Tribe trilogy—Homeroom Headhunters, Camp Cannibal, and Academic Assassins—are published by Disney/Hyperion. He wrote the screenplays for The Boy (with Craig Macneill), The Trouble with Dad (with Glenn McQuaid), Late Bloomer (Sundance 2005), and Henley (Sundance 2012). His works for theater include Commencement and Hostage Song (music/lyrics by Kyle Jarrow). He has worked on the comics The Avengers, Amazing Spider-Man, Edge of Spider-Verse, and Ultimate Spider-Man Adventures. He is a writing instructor at the Actors Studio MFA Program at Pace University. Visit him at: www.claymcleodchapman.com.

• • • production history • • •

The Wet Echo was part of a presentation of monologues and one-act plays under the title Nine Signs of the Times, a benefit for New York’s Nuyorican Poets Cafe’s education programs, April 11–13, 2014. Technical director Samuel Chico, music by Michael Gallant, produced by Daniel Gallant, directed by Clay McLeod Chapman.

SIR EDWARD PLEASANT Abe Goldfarb

MADAME LILITH VERMILLION Fig Chilcott

EDWARD The petrified remains of Frances Xavier von Schwarzenberg were discovered sitting in a perfectly upright position at the snowy peak of Mount Pelvoux. The sun-bleached bones of the late Lieutenant Benjamin Banks were discovered scattered across the sandy outback of the then-unknown Terra Australis, years after his expedition’s disappearance into that grainy wasteland. For as long as men possess that burning urge to venture into the unknown, laying claim to that uncharted terrain wherever it may be found—there will be daredevils such as myself searching this earth, yearning to find that nameless space and call it their own. Anonymous no more!

Mark my words the world will remember the name of Sir Edward Pleasant!

Explorer. Pioneer. Discoverer of that final frontier!

Few dare travel where I have embarked—and none have ever returned. You will not find this incomprehensible continent on any map, for no topographer has survived the journey to detail its dimensions. It remains a most amorphous terrain, shapeless and strange, its exact latitudes still a mystery to man. I myself was not conscious of its occupancy upon this globe until Madame Lilith Vermillion exposed me to its entrance, granting me safe passage through her ivory-toned thighs—her pale legs like two lusty tusks on a most sensual elephant. And what a foreign world it is, my friends! The heat of the Amazon is nothing compared to the climate I find myself sweltering within now, possessing a density like no other. Such muggy atmospherics! Even sound seems to be hampered within this environment. When I first entered this nether-region, staring down into its darkened corridors, my initial impulse was to give a good bellow from the lungs—

Hello! Is anyone down there?

It was then, heaven help me—that I was first met with . . . the wet echo.

Helloooo. Is anyoooone down theeeere?

Such a slurpy reverberation! These were my words, yes. That was my voice, for sure. And yet, somehow—the tenor had changed, perverting itself, like a boomerang bringing back something altogether foreign from along its flight. Something slippery.

LILITH Don’t talk to the damn thing, Edward.

EDWARD Sorry—sorry.

LILITH Kiss it already!

EDWARD Even my mustache has fallen prey to these soggy surroundings! The twines of my handlebar are now soaked in such a strange condensation. Sucking on my upper lip, I was stunned to discover the moisture had a tanginess to it. Thank goodness for this new world and the bizarre fruit it bears! For I have derived sustenance from its damp climate for days now. Has it been days already? Time has contorted itself into the most obscure proportions. My God—how long have I been down here?

LILITH Don’t be so bashful, Sir Pleasant. You’d think there was a continent between us.

EDWARD Edward—please. Call me Edward.

LILITH Edward?

EDWARD Yes, madam?

LILITH There’s something I want to show you, Edward . . .

EDWARD I first came upon the cave drawings some time ago. I have spent my days in the deeper recesses of this region, venturing further into its vast catacombs. It was merely by chance that I even discovered these primitive illustrations of some lost civilization adorning the borders beside me. These bizarre symbols seem to narrate a tale hereunto untold to man.

At first I believed I had the honor of laying claim of this land—but now I fear that this land may in fact have been laying claim to me all along.

Were Lilith only here to lead me through this tangle of intertwining tunnels. What would she think of her poor explorer now? May God forgive me for my hubris! I am finally willing to admit to myself that I am lost. Absolutely lost!

LILITH Shall I draw you a map, Sir Pleasant?

EDWARD I can’t seem to locate the—

LILITH Just keep looking, Edward.

EDWARD There?

LILITH Further up.

EDWARD There?

LILITH No—up. Up.

EDWARD Here?

LILITH There.

EDWARD Like that?

LILITH Slower. Slower . . .

EDWARD This?

LILITH Steady, steady. There.

EDWARD I can’t seem to get the hang of—

LILITH Stop talking, Edward. Just—yes. Yes! Just like that.

EDWARD Like this?

LILITH That’s it, Edward! That’s it.

EDWARD Really now?

LILITH Now faster, Edward. Faster!

EDWARD If you say so, madam . . .

LILITH Yes, Edward! Yes! Yes! Yes!

EDWARD I am writing now in the hopes that my words will reach the next explorer who dares enter this region. My only audience is you, dear pioneer! You—who have descended into these vast catacombs for glory! For the sake of fame! Let my story be a warning to you . . . I found the first bone—a femur, I believe—further down the corridor. I nearly tripped over its tibia, patting at the ground before coming upon the rest of the skeleton. I felt the contours of a rib, an ulna, the very metacarpals of what had been a man’s hand slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. Most haunting of all, however—from the dim glow, I discovered what could only be described as the ruins of a once mighty empire. Here, before me, was a temple as monumental as any shrine the Aztecs ever erected! The number of men, the sheer amount of years it must’ve taken to construct such a colossal sanctuary—these ruins had been here for centuries! Right under our noses all along!

Man has no rule over this realm. Though it bears no name, though there is no flag demarcating another countryman’s discovery—we were not meant for this wilderness!

What’s left of me now I pray I never have to see. May sunlight never strike this sallow skin, laced in blue veins. Eyes brimming in a white blindness. Possibly a pinkness lingering within the pupil, but not a pigment more. Every last scrap of fabric hanging off the body has long since deteriorated. Now as naked as the day we were born.

The world has taken shape around us, gentlemen. The continents have all been mapped. The mountains all scaled. What undiscovered country that still remains will be explored before the end of this very century. I daresay we discoverers have become an endangered species unto ourselves. . . .

This has become our home now. There